


The chaos and the calm

by wordfrenzy (orphan_account)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: (sort of), Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Serious Injuries, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 02:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3751756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wordfrenzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond goes on a mission, goes off the map for a while, comes to Q's flat in the early hours of the morning, injured and asking for scotch. They have a weird relationship. </p><p>It's pretty much a cycle. </p><p>
  <i>He doesn't know why (why would he?) Bond comes to his flat, at all. Seeking medical supplies is slightly understandable, though an agent would have sought for it at base, not a quartermaster's place, with hardly any experience under his belt. For Bond to have only asked for his presence is the peak of all questions. 007, the mysterious special agent, sits on Q's sofa, barely-drunken tea in hand, with not so much as a reason as to why. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Q must broach it, so he does. 'Why do you come here? Of all places, why do you come here?'</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The chaos and the calm

In the year of working as quartermaster for MI6, with Bond, Q doesn't know why this surprises him.

He tends to the weaponry, the new gadgets that are brought back damaged — or, on many occasions, completely lost on the job — but he knows what happens out on the field, what Bond does. Bond kills, goes out aware of the possibility of never returning, and though Q isn't an idiot to _know_ this is what happens, he hasn't experienced it firsthand, so to say or even think he understands the feeling would be a lie.

Bond standing outside his flat is another Q doesn't understand. He presses against his side, hand slick with blood. Ah, a bullet wound. Q doesn't want to know how he got it, doesn't even want to ask; he's heard enough stories from Moneypenny, dislocated shoulders and black eyes, what Q has never imagined dealing with. Still, it isn't as if he can turn Bond away.

Though, he'll have to make another cup of tea.

'Do you have a first-aid kit?'

Q frowns. 'Yes.'

With that, Bond brushes past him and as if he lives here, rifling through Q's cupboards. Q stands there, dumbfounded, a little irked by the intrusion, though has a snippet of concern. It's a snippet not out of discontent, but how he knows Bond can take care of himself; the one thing he _has_ seen whilst on the job is Bond entering MI6 with two of his ribs broken, and acted as if it was nothing at all. This is what Bond is doing now, _taking care of himself_ , albeit in Q's flat, in the middle of his bathroom, leaving accidental, red handprints over the place.

First-aid kit in hand — found in the bathroom cabinet — Bond settles down on the toilet seat, and slips his jacket and shirt off, sticky with blood, all but with a slight grimace. He inspects the wound, which makes Q wonder how Bond managed to get to his flat at all. It's deep; enough that when Bond so much as breathes another gush of blood comes out.

It doesn't matter to Bond, as he adds pressure to it with a damp cloth. Q clears his throat.

'I'd help you, but it seems you already have the knack for treating bullet wounds. Almost too familiarised, if I say so myself.'

Bond doesn't look at him. 'It does come with the job.'

'And the impulsion?'

'Always has.'

Q watches as Bond uses a pair of hardly sterilised tweezers and searches around for the bullet, finding it in a second; it pings as he drops it on the counter. He cleans himself of blood, stitches himself up with a needle and thread and steady hands, and tapes a square of gauze over it. In place of his torn clothes, he wears nothing, the upper half of his naked and brazenly so.

It isn't the injuries, or the way Bond didn't disagree with him about the impulsions — Bond can be like that, fuelled by anger or pain, though maybe he or Q had been referring to a generalisation than this specific mission, though Q isn't too keen to ask further — but how still, in his state, Bond has steady hands. Again, it can be connected back to pain or anger, what Q has heard from Moneypenny or Tanner, though _again_ , it isn't something he, or Bond, would want to discuss.

Bond splashes water over his face. 'It's rude to stare you know.'

'I think considering the circumstances, it would be stupid not to.' Q eyes him, still unsure about whether or not Bond could keel over. 'The last thing I need is an ambulance at my door, with some excuse as to why there is a double-oh agent on my floor, _shot_ no less. Which, speaking of, I'm sure M wouldn't mind hearing about your whereabouts.'

'M already knows.'

'And you didn't think to seek medical attention at MI6, with qualified doctors?'

A pause, and then Bond gives a little shrug. 'Yes, but I prefer to skip the unnecessary examinations.'

'Right,' Q says. 'Would you like some tea?'

Bond dries his face and turns round, pressing over his bandage again, and brushes past Q, again, coming to a stop in his kitchen. He sits at the table, rolling his shoulder. 'Anything more to my tastes?'

Q nods — the tastes referring to any alcohol at all — and takes out the open bottle of scotch; it isn't to his tastes, hence why there is so much of it left. He takes out a glass, uncaps it, and places both on the table. For the second time that night, he's surprised again, by how Bond doesn't pour himself a drink, but instead grasps the bottle by the neck and takes a swig.

It makes Q wonder what Bond really thinks of his occupation.

 

.

 

During his next mission, Bond disappears off the grid.

It does make Q blink as he pauses, staring at the screen where the dot had been. He then asks for a coffee; that's a problem in itself, what with not being tea, but Q tries to not take too much notice of it. It makes him take too much notice of it, the strong taste lingering in his mouth, the tingling in his fingers as it takes hold, gaze furiously darting over his computer screen.

He waits.

And waits — waits for quite a long time, until M is alerted of the inconvenience and comes over. He speaks with Tanner, a low murmur that Q can just about hear if he leans back, though M doesn't have much distress in his tone or some much of a bother to do anything. Maybe that's the skepticism seeping through. Q is almost tempted to ask, but then M turns to him, the only sign of a reaction the frown in his brow.

'When did he go offline?'

'Two hours ago,' Q says. 'Should I try and relocate his signal?'

'No.' M is already walking away, back into his office, and at this, Q isn't so surprised. 'This is 007 for Christ's sake, probably on his own again, enjoying — what did he call it? — _enjoying death_. He'll come back eventually. Think of it as his 'holiday', even if he forgot to book time off.'

Q does as he says.

 

.

 

Bond is still missing a week later.

 

.

 

It's another three days before Bond turns up at the end of the working day, untouched, with a greeting of dropping his — unsurprisingly destroyed — gun atop Q's desk. 'Apologies,' he says. 'Ran into some trouble.'

'Quite,' Q says. 'Though a small warning beforehand would've been appreciated.'

'Why? Miss me?'

'I was talking about the gun.'

Bond still hovers about Q's desk, as if he doesn't have a job to be doing, which he doesn't, not at this very moment anyway; he will, eventually, which should be discussed with M, along with the explanation as to why he decided to drop off the map for nearly a week and a half. Q would ask, if it isn't for the fact that it's none of his business, and perhaps if there is a story attached, it isn't one he'd be too fond of hearing.

He leans against the desk, arms crossed, and it's typical Bond, yet again. Had Q not been so busy, dozens of plans to be coded, gadgets to be tweaked, Q might've been tempted to stare — he's attractive, no doubt about that, no wonder he's known for seducing the ladies, but Q keeps his gaze pinned to his laptop.

A smirk, and then: 'Of course you were.'

Q rolls his eyes. 'No, all right. I meant I did miss you, along with the trails of blood you so kindly left in my flat.'

'I didn't hear you complaining before.'

'That might've been because you'd been shot,' Q says, closing his laptop. 'Or have you forgotten?'

He packs his things away, and by the time he's at the elevator, he notices Bond is following him. He still is when Q gets out onto the street, down the pavement towards the underground, down the steps. It's all too difficult to add it all up, or else why would Bond be taking the exact same route as Q, when they live on the opposite sides of London. Q stops, and turns to Bond.

Sighing, 'You're coming to my flat, aren't you? Again.'

'I liked your scotch.'

They take the tube together, swaying along with the hum of the train; they stand close, close enough that Q can smell the sweat and cologne off Bond's skin, a musky tinge that lingers in the air. Close enough that — even though Q would deny the staring — he could peel back Bond's coat and shirt, and trace his fingers over the patchy bullet wound he'd watched Bond treat, if it's healed at all. Q likes to think it has, or else there would be blood seeping through fabric, and all over his flat again.

Out of the underground, Q feels a slight feeling of unease. They're walking together, up the stairs, along the hallway, and to his door where he fiddles around in his pocket for his keys. It feels odd because, in a manner of speaking, it's like they've come back from a date. A flutter of nerves in his stomach, the sudden refusal to look up at Bond, and breath shallow and heavy is all signs.

He breathes in the cool air once he gets it unlocked and almost stumbles in. 'It's in the cupboard above the sink, top shelf.'

'Would you like some?'

Q sits down on the sofa. 'No, thank you.'

Bond grabs the bottle, but also a glass this time. He pours up to half, and downs it in one. He pours another, strides over with it, and settles down besides Q. 'Don't you want to ask?'

'It's not a question of wanting to, rather if it will do either of us good.' It's true; if Bond wants to tell him, then Q will listen, but he's not sure what his response will be, or if there will be one at all. It wouldn't have been suggested if Bond doesn't want to at least give some idea of his intentions, which is why Q says, 'If you wish to say, then I'm all ears, James.'

The use of his real name could have been enough, but it isn't just yet, as Bond simply stares at Q for a long while, and then knocks back the rest of his scotch. He stays there, and Q stays there, waits until there is a soft snoring in his ear; he sees Bond's head slumped to the side, glass tipping from his loose hand, and maybe it's the way Bond looks anything but relaxed — anything but the Bond he's used to that makes Q not kick him out.

Yes, that's why.

 

.

 

Maybe that's why they sleep together.

Yes, that's why.

 

.

 

'Tea?'

Q offers it to Bond, a mug full to the brim of Earl Grey. In a state of disorientation — a slight hangover, most likely — Bond takes it, though doesn't drink it. Q doesn't feel so well himself, what with spending the night on the sofa, his only excuse being not wanting Bond to go off somewhere again, alone and no way of knowing his purposes.

He comes back with a second cup for himself when he sees Bond on his phone, snapping it shut with a sigh. Q doesn't think he's ever heard Bond sigh. 'New mission in Thailand, flight's in seven hours.'

'You don't seem too pleased.'

'Would you be?'

A pause. 'No, I suppose not.'

They drink their tea in silence, a chorus of sipping and gulping; the sun streams through the blinds, casting a glow over Bond. It's absolutely ridiculous to say that is the moment Q finds more to Bond than what's already been seen, and yet here he is, staring at a man who'd knocked on his door a while ago, bleeding and half-naked in his flat, with the thoughts of _why_.

He doesn't know why (why would he?) Bond comes to his flat, at all. Seeking medical supplies is slightly understandable, though an agent would have sought for it at base, not a quartermaster's place, with hardly any experience under his belt. For Bond to have only asked for his presence is the peak of all questions. 007, the mysterious special agent, sits on Q's sofa, barely-drunken tea in hand, with not so much as a reason as to _why_.

Q must broach it, so he does. 'Why do you come here? Of all places, why do you come here?'

Bond studies him, and then:

'I thought it would be obvious by now.'

That's when he stands, walks over, and kisses Q in a second flat. It's hard enough that Q's glasses are pushed up the bridge of his nose, tripping backwards until the very painful edge of a table catches his fall, but none of that matters when Bond cups his cheek and holds them closer and pulls Q's bottom lip out with his teeth.

Pulling away, Q presses his lips together, adjusting his glasses. 'That was, uh. Informative.'

'I know I'm good, but never —'

'Arrogance is unbecoming, you know.'

Bond smirks. 'It's a good thing I don't have any more talking planned.'

They kiss again, Q crowded up against the table again, wood digging into his back. He keeps his hands at Bond's neck, but pushes forward, hoping he'll get the message at some point; he does, thank God, guiding Q to his bedroom, and stumbling across the floor until they crash onto the bed. It knocks their heads together, and air rushes from Q's lungs, but Bond’s lips silence it, by his tongue, by the way he grinds down, sending a jolt up Q's spine.

Q's sweater is wrestled off and thrown on the floor, along with his and Bond's shirt, quick work made to sucking hickeys into his neck. He moans — jesus, he _moans_ , quite possibly premature and loud enough to confirm this sort of thing hasn't happened for a while, but if Bond notices, he doesn't show it — and arches up into it.

Another bite sinks into his collarbone, and Q sighs. 'This will raise some eyebrows back at base, and I don't think saying Bond turning into a vampire would be a believable excuse, or believable at all.'

'No talking, remember?' Bond says, hand slipping down into the waistline of Q's pants.

He opens his mouth to speak, but again, is silenced by Bond wrapping a hand around him and pumping once. A moan slips past, but this time Q lets it, he lets it all happen — lets the knot in his stomach tighten and tighten, lets Bond peck kisses along his chest, lets himself squeeze his eyes shut and fist the sheets as he comes with a shudder the first time. The second is worse, sensitive and writhing, cheeks hot and thighs shaky as he comes again, biting his lip until it bleeds.

The third time he whispers _James_.

 

.

 

After that, they fuck.

Twice.

It's rough, and typical of Bond, with easy touches that spark Q's skin and pace easy; it's expected, and expectedly wonderful.

What isn't expected, is the way Bond almost shies away from anything Q wants to give him, pinning Q's hands above his head as he drives into him with determined thrusts, tensing when the legs around his waist tighten. It's odd, as well, that when it's over, with the sheets sticky and damp and the room overheated, that Bond turns onto his side and flicks off the light.

 

.

 

Even more odd when Q wakes up the next morning to find Bond gone.

Odd, but clearly puts things into perspective.

 

.

 

Bond doesn't come to Q's flat for a month — not that Q expected anything less — and it confirms what he'd been thinking: that's that. Whatever they had, a friendship with the sparse benefit, or some sort of warped one-nighter where they're thoroughly wrung out like some dishtowel, only to realise the dishtowel is far too tatty and worn out, that it'll be replaced by something newer and fresh; in other words, it was sex, fucking, and just the once.

 

.

 

Q is working when he overhears M on the phone. It's like a ball of ice dropping in his stomach when he does.

'Yes, intensive care — no, no visitors yet. We're, he's, lucky to have not been put into an induced coma due to extensive injuries. That's the thing, it wasn't from a mission.' M pauses, as if contemplating whether to say it or not. Q strains to hear. 'It was a car accident. We think he might've been drinking.'

Hands frozen over his keyboard, Q isn't sure how to feel. Okay, maybe he does, if the feeling as if someone has wrapped a rubber band around his gut and chest in barbed wire is anything to go by. It isn't the simple concern of a colleague, or mild worry of a close friend, but outright anxiety for, well, someone Q quite likes. Relationship material, that sort of thing, not that it had been laid out on the table beforehand.

He thinks of Bond whilst he manages to unstick his fingers and continue working, thinks of him on the tube home, and it's the only thing on his mind when he slumps into the sofa, his scotch in hand; and though he's a lightweight, and the taste lingers in his throat, and it's too heavy to handle, he drinks.

As he's painfully reminded, in fact, by the way he drinks it from the bottle this time.

 

.

 

And yet, when there's a knock at his door at two in the morning, Q still isn't surprised.

Bond looks like shit.

His eye is swollen shut, arm in a sling, butterfly stitches covering around three-quarters of his face, and he's hunched over in what is closely akin to a cradling position, from what Q can guess as more said stitches probably splitting. Yes. Blood has soaked through Bond's shirt — dried, crusty — and after a few minutes Bond has to lean against the doorframe, wheezing.

'Aren't you going to let me in?'

'This isn't intensive care.'

A sigh. 'I'm well aware of that.'

'If you were _aware_ ,' Q says, knowing it's harsh, but he has a migraine, and Bond can't exactly waltz, or limp, back into his life without an explanation. 'You'd turn around, go back, and lower the risk of dying on my doorstep.'

Bond manages to lift off the frame and shuffle through, and Q does nothing to stop him, (can't exactly leave him out here to bleed to death, either.) He lowers down onto the sofa with a wince, holding his arm, sinking down into the cushions as if he's so familiar with the place, as if he lives here. It angers Q. It irritates him. He may be the quartermaster, the lesser important yet required part of MI6, but that doesn't mean he himself isn't important.

And when Bond says one thing, it sets Q off, 'Don't be so dramatic, Q.'

'Don't be —?' He takes a breath. 'You must be joking. Says the one who falls off the map, disappears for weeks on end, comes back, sleeps with me, then acts as if it never happened!'

Unblinking, 'I have my reasons.'

'Yes? And what reasons are those?'

'I've been thinking,' Bond says, and Q is tempted to scoff, but he forces it back. 'So much that it got me into this state.'

Crossing his arms, Q keeps his head level, what he says not intended to be malice, no matter how much it sounds like he is intending it. 'Perhaps you should stop that, then.'

'You're right,' Bond says, huffing a worrying laugh, and Q knows that whatever is about to come next, will leave him frozen on the spot, or maybe in the sensation of falling into an abyss; he never knows with Bond. 'But, then again, it's you I'm thinking about. It's been you, Q. Ever since I came here that first night, it's been you.'

Q forgets how to breathe for a second, but when he remembers, the air burns in his chest.

He wonders whether Bond has been drinking or under the influence of morphine, or this is some sort of hallucination from Q's, but it feels too very real and yet unreal that Bond, known for womanising, sleeping around, a suave agent, would pour his heart out the best way he could. Bond, who makes a living on manipulating targets and pulling the triggers, stands in front of Q and ultimately tells him, he feels the emotions — the ones that make you stop and think, _oh bugger._

'What?'

When Bond pushes himself up, limps over, and stands in front of Q, he thinks they might kiss again. They don't, Bond instead reaching down and brushes his fingers over the back of Q's hand. Then, he smiles; it's not a smirk, but a smile, and it's sad.

'It might've seemed like just sex, just fucking,' Bond says. 'But it wasn't. Not really.'

A breath. 'What was it?'

'It was more.'

Q wants to shake Bond; he wants to run around, scream, and shake out the answers. His breath comes harsh, ragged, as it tears up his throat. Maybe it's horrid to think as the poor man has been through an ordeal of missions and close encounters with death, but still, it has a chain reaction on Q — and yes, Q made his own decisions to become involved with Bond, to sleep with him, to care about him, to want that more.

So he will. He's thought of this for many nights, sleepless and with tossing and turning, all whilst Bond apparently did the same. How he comes about expressing his feelings isn't the wisest, but in the heat, Q does it anyway.

'You are insufferable.'

'Why, thank you, Q. I'm touched.'

Ignoring him, Q carries on. 'You come to my flat in the middle of the night.'

'Insomnia.'

'You drip blood everywhere that takes hours to clean out of my carpet.'

'I can clean.'

'You drink all my scotch.'

'I did say I liked your scotch. You don't drink it, either.'

'You treated me like some conquest.'

Bond pauses at that. 'You've got the wrong end of the stick.'

'Yes, I know, but you, you confuse the —' Q shoves a hand through his hand, and it comes out, all at once, because there's nothing else he can do. 'You confuse the fuck out of me, 007, James fucking Bond. You, you twat, are possibly one of the biggest mistakes of my life.' Bond's face straightens at that, but Q finishes with, 'But the best, biggest mistake, that is.'

It takes a while, but then a smile slowly lights up on Bond's lips. He cups a hand over Q's cheek, stepping closer until they're trapped against the corner, and it's warm, it's so warm. Not hot, like when they were in bed, skin against skin, but just warm, something different and something Q is so glad to feel again.

'This is an opening to something more, as you put it yourself,' Q says. 'As long as we're on the same page.'

And then Bond kisses Q, and it's so bloody wonderful.'

'We most definitely are.'

 

.

 

Later on, whilst in bed, with Q sickly-thin and gangly and owner of a brilliant mind, and Bond with his healing injuries and instinctual impulses and his lifestyle of danger, Q wonders if this is something destined to fail.

He wonders — wonders if it's destined to fail as he links their hands together, and kisses Bond's knuckles.

And _wonders_ that, on the other hand, maybe it's not.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been finding myself becoming addicted to new OTPs — this being a fave of mine now — and so writing them was a must. I hope it's good, (though there's probably mistakes with my rushed editing), but please leave a kudos! ♡


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